


The Price of War

by Lisafer



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Forum: Goldenlake, Gen, Malorie's Peak Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men whose lives revolve around war take a moment to reflect upon it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of War

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Malorie's Peak Prompt "Remembrance"

“Sit,” the duke said, gesturing to the chair beside his. He carefully poured two fingers of brandy into a second snifter. “Drink?”

“Do I have an option?”

“Not on a day like this, Wyldon.”

They sat in relative silence – a sharp contrast to the singing and crying in the streets. But here, on the balcony adjacent to Duke Gareth’s chambers, they were high enough in a palace tower that the voices did not carry. Instead they listened to the wind whipping at flags and banners that flew from every turret. 

“There’s something incredibly sad about the end of a war,” Gareth said. “As sad as it is relieving.”

“So much lost life.”

“And for what?” 

This time the silence was awkward. There was knowledge between them that, had anyone else overheard, there would be challenges of treason and heresy. But these two men understood one another. 

“How many men did you lose, the first time you were in command?”

Gareth sighed. “No more than I could count.” Another sip. “One can count incredibly high, when tallying lives lost. I do my best to never forget those faces, those stories. Men I commanded, men I trained.”

“Families I had to inform.”

He nodded. “How many knights did you lose? Knights that you trained personally?”

Wyldon shook his head. “Over a dozen, lost on the Scanran border.”

“And you wonder how many might have survived, had you trained them differently?”

“All the time.”

Gareth turned to face his companion for the first time, and Wyldon was shocked at the weariness in the duke’s eyes. “They don’t tell you that, when they ask you to be the training master. They don’t remind you that this nation has had a war every generation – when we’re lucky enough to have only one. The king never sits down and tells you that the reason you were chosen is not only because of your technique, but also because he knows that you will carry those souls with you for the rest of your life.”

“No, he didn’t,” Wyldon said, taking a sip of his brandy. It made his already-burning throat feel worse, and did nothing to stop the stinging at the corners of his eyes. “But I knew it, going in.”

“Indeed?” Gareth asked. “You had more foresight than I ever did.”

“I grew up watching you, Your Grace.” Wyldon said with a grimace. “I saw you greet soldiers and knights after the war with Tusaine. I watched you force yourself out of bed when you shouldn’t have in order to personally address the wounded after the Coronation Day uprising.”

“As you did, after the Immortals War,” Gareth replied with a wry smile.

Wyldon studied the duke for a long moment. The older man said nothing, content to sip his brandy and enjoy the view from his chair. The sun peeked from behind clouds to illuminate his lined face. “Did you ever regret?”

“Regret teaching boys how to be knights? Regret fighting for my king and country?”

“Regret recommending me to King Jonathan.”

The duke shook his head. “I had my moments, but they were brief. You did right by me, and right by the nation.”

“Will you attend the celebrations?”

Duke Gareth coughed and refilled both of their glasses. “I’ve done enough victory laps in my time.” He handed one back to Wyldon. “Are you planning on singing in the streets that the war has ended?”

“If I were, I wouldn’t be here, in the relative calm.”

“It will be calmer, in just a moment,” Gareth pointed out. The king had insisted upon a moment of silence after the seventh bell of the evening – a moment to reflect upon the lives that were lost, a moment to send prayers to the gods, be it in thanks or lamentation. 

Wyldon took his snifter back from Gareth and raised it in a toast. “Lest we forget,” he murmured.

Gareth raised his own glass; the two men drank in silence and the bells began to toll. Each reflected, in that time, on the young men they had trained, on the young men who were buried around the borders of Tortall.


End file.
